


Way To A Man's Heart

by Nny



Series: 2020 Valentine's Requests [9]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Clint Barton's Farm, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Werewolf Mates, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22751416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: He doesn't react. He's a goddamn professional, and he doesn't react. He ostensibly carries on with exactly what he's doing, but he flips the camera and tilts it back and forth until he sees a dark figure across the street. The guy's not even trying to be subtle about it, frozen in place like Clint's someone he recognises, maybe someone who scares him, but Clint would swear that he's never seen the guy before. It's hard to tell from his phone screen, especially with the spiderweb of cracks, but he's pretty sure he would've remembered the man - he's got long dark hair swept back under a ball cap, and the jawline that's revealed ain't one you'd forget.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: 2020 Valentine's Requests [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633162
Comments: 22
Kudos: 131





	Way To A Man's Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> Written for Kangofu_CB at the request of 1000_Directions, with the prompt of people using food as an expression of love.
> 
> This... doesn't quite do that. Or it does, but Clint sure as hell doesn't know about it yet. However this has settled into my brain, and I promise that there will be at least one more chapter coming.

After so long in New York, the farm is - 

Okay, so one of the things his mandated therapy sessions have reminded him is that lying to himself is more than a little unproductive, which he'd normally be fine with, but he'd promised Natasha he'd try. He isn't used to seeing her so worried; he isn't used to being able to discern her emotions at all, actually, relying more on wild guesses and wishful thinking. Seeing her actually shedding tears was kind of a kick in the teeth, and he'd given her his word that he'd do his best to get better. 

So he's calling her regularly, and he's doing his PT exercises, and he's having sessions with his therapist on skype once a week. Admittedly he had lied to his therapist about one significant thing, but that's just because he's not sure she'd be happy with him going out on the roof with his crutches, even if it's only because it's the one place on the farm you get decent signal. 

He's trying. 

So the truth is that he wants the farm to be peaceful. He wants it to be a relief. He wants to be revelling in the silence and the space, where in actuality he's wavering back and forth between freaked out by the emptiness and bored out of his mind. 

Natasha had helped set him up here, helping him unfold the sofa bed in the living room, filling his chest freezer with waffles and frozen pizza and his cupboards with coffee and gummy multivitamins. She'd made sure he had a working television, and every series of Dog Cops on DVD. Clint had cornered her whirlwind of activity long enough to wrap his arms tight around her, and despite her verbal protests she'd squeezed him like anything right back. 

"You don't get to do that," she'd said, low and steady and perfectly pitched for him to hear. And he'd rested his chin on the top of her head and promised that he won't, ever again. 

*

It's Tuesday, which means it's time for his weekly trip to the closest town. 

Tony had landed by his barn in a helicopter, two weeks in. They hadn't actually talked about anything, Clint sipping on a beer and listening to the tales of Tony's idiot robots alongside the banging and clattering and the occasional demand for a tool, but when Tony had left again Clint'd had a truck that was fully functional without him having to use his leg. 

So once a week he drives into town and gets himself the closest thing to a fancy coffee that it can provide. He wanders along Main Street and takes pictures of small town shit, things he can show to Natasha as evidence that he's doing something like okay. This week he's trying to get an angle on the community noticeboard which shows the pumpkin bunting without the glare on the glass, when he feels eyes on him. 

He doesn't react. He's a goddamn professional, and he doesn't react. He ostensibly carries on with exactly what he's doing, but he flips the camera and tilts it back and forth until he sees a dark figure across the street. The guy's not even trying to be subtle about it, frozen in place like Clint's someone he recognises, maybe someone who scares him, but Clint would swear that he's never seen the guy before. It's hard to tell from his phone screen, especially with the spiderweb of cracks, but he's pretty sure he would've remembered the man - he's got long dark hair swept back under a ball cap, and the jawline that's revealed ain't one you'd forget. 

Clint's just about decided that he's gonna limp on over there when the guy rabbits, disappearing around the corner before Clint's even got his hands back on his crutches. It's probably nothing, but Clint can't shake the feeling of being watched, and it's not long before he climbs back into his truck and heads back to the farm. 

He's not gonna tell Natasha.

*

One of the things that Clint's found hardest to adjust to is the shift in sound. 

He's used to louder and he'd expected it to be quieter, both at once. He's not close enough to other houses to have noises he's used to, not close enough to other farms for the sound-effects he's heard on TV. There're weird scratchings at the sides of the house sometimes, though, and the whistling flutter and thump of birds landing on his roof. One time he heard a fox barking outside and he was honestly too scared to take his aids out for hours after. 

All of the noises, though, all the rustlings and hootings and wind whistles that dip in and out of his range of functional hearing, hadn't prepared him for the howling. 

It shivers down the length of his spine, dropping him right into the cold water of fear - it ain't a rational thing, goes straight to his heart and his gut without stopping to consult his brain. 

Clint's not - allowed a bow and arrow, right now, but he's got a shotgun stored in an otherwise unused umbrella stand by the front door. He debates the wisdom with himself for a couple minutes, but even on crutches he's convinced he can hit whatever he's aiming at, and he grabs it and limps out onto the porch. 

There's something out there, right in front of his door. 

He flinches back before he sees properly what it is, straining something in his knee that ain't gonna thank him later. His left foot comes down in the puddle of dark blood, and it's been there long enough that it's tacky rather than slippery, staining the white rubber of the sole of his shoe. The pair of rabbits have had their throats ripped out, and Clint's hand tightens around the stock of the gun, his throat working as he swallows and tries not to gag. 

In the distance the howl still throbs, mournful and alone. 


End file.
